One moment, Naci's band is cresting a dune, the world a monochrome hell of wind-scoured sand and aching cold. The next, the dunes fall away like a receding tide, revealing a jagged line of ochre cliffs. Nestled at their feet, cradled by a shockingly green smear of palm trees and shimmering water, sits Qixi-Lo. The Yohazatz capital. The end of the trail.

Relief is a physical punch, quickly followed by a cold knife of dread.

"Finally," Pomogr rasps, his voice a desert crow's croak. He spits, the phlegm freezing before it hits the sand. Around them, the remnants of the three hundred – perhaps two hundred and fifty gaunt, frostbitten shadows now – slump in their saddles, horses trembling with exhaustion.

But as they urge their stumbling mounts down the rocky slope towards the city's sprawling southern outskirts, the silence presses in.

No smoke rises from the mud-brick houses clustered outside the city. No herds graze the scrubland near the oasis. No sentries patrol the battlements. Only the wind whistles through gaps in the outer shantytown, carrying a stench that makes even the desert-hardened Tepr warriors gag – the sweet-rot reek of decay, magnified by the sudden humidity.

Then they see them.

Piles.

Not neat stacks, but ragged, chaotic heaps, like discarded sacks flung by a giant's careless hand. Dozens of them, scattered around the base of the towering southern gate and the approach road. Human shapes, frozen in grotesque angles, limbs stiff and splayed. Emerald green cloth, stained black and stiff with old blood, identifies them even from a distance.

"Moukopl," Pomogr states flatly, his face grim beneath the grime. "Hundreds. Executed."

Naci pulls Liara to a halt, her own exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by a hunter's sharp focus. Her gaze sweeps the grisly landscape, the silent city. "Not a welcoming committee," she murmurs, drawing her bone-white musket from its saddle holter. The click of the priming pan opening is unnaturally loud. "Fol, Pomogr – wide flank. Eyes sharp. This is worse than anything I expected."

...

Noga's return is heralded not by triumphant horns, but by a single, mournful blast that echoes through the strangely quiet streets.

A battered cart, pulled by two gaunt warriors whose eyes hold the thousand-yard stare of men who have seen hell and dragged part of it back, rumbles through the Jade Gate and up the Processional Way. Dolma walks beside it, her shaman's robes crusted with sand and old blood. Sarangerel, limping heavily, one arm bound tightly across her chest, clutches the cart's side, her eyes fixed on the bundled figure within – Noga, swaddled in filthy blankets, his face ashen, breathing shallow and wet, the stump of his arm a monstrous, pus-stained bulge beneath the wrappings.

People watch from shadowed doorways and rooftops, their faces closed, unreadable. No cheers. No wails. Just silence and watchful eyes. Dolma's own gaze darts around, taking in the unusual stillness, the absence of the Khan's banners. "Where is the Lion?" she mutters, more to herself than Sarangerel. "Where is Qaloron Khan to greet his returning storm?"

The cart clatters into the vast central courtyard before the palace. The great bronze doors stand open. No honor guard lines the steps. Only Puripal stands there. Puripal still wears the practical, dark leathers of a Yohazatz captain.

Sarangerel stumbles forward as the cart stops, her voice raw with pain and desperate hope. "Father! Father-in-law! The Khan! Where is Qaloron Khan? He must see his son! He must summon the physicians!"

Puripal steps forward, his expression arranged into a mask of profound, statesmanlike sorrow. "Sister," Puripal says, his voice low, resonant, carrying easily in the silent courtyard. He inclines his head first to Sarangerel, then to Dolma with deep respect. "Honored Shaman." Finally, his gaze rests on the unconscious Noga in the cart. The sorrow in his eyes looks practiced. "Brother."

He straightens, squaring his shoulders as if bearing the weight of terrible news. "I grieve to be the bearer of darkness upon your return from the night. Our father, Qaloron Khan of Khans…" He pauses, letting the title hang heavy. "...was taken from us. Struck down by an assassin's cowardly arrow mere days ago. In this very plaza."

Sarangerel gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. Dolma goes very still, her eyes narrowing to slits, boring into Puripal.

"The villain," Puripal continues, his voice hardening with righteous anger, "a young fanatic, was apprehended almost immediately." He gestures vaguely. "Swift justice was served at dawn. He met his ancestors with his guilt still warm." He takes a step closer to the cart, looking down at Noga with an expression that might be pity, or something far colder. "We waited, sister. We held vigil. We deferred the full funerary rites, the ascension ceremony…" He looks meaningfully at Noga's broken form. "...knowing the heir would wish to be present. To honor his father. To claim his birthright."

He spreads his hands. "In this interim, burdened by grief and duty, Prince Nemeh and I have shouldered the mantle of regency. A temporary measure, of course." His gaze flicks back to Noga. "Given… this… the burdens of state, the healing our brother requires… it seems prudent, necessary even, that Third Brother and I continue to guide the realm. For stability. For our brother's sake. Until he is… restored."

Sarangerel stares at him. The carefully constructed sorrow, the smooth explanation, the utter lack of genuine grief for the father or concern for the brother lying half-dead before him – it crashes over her. The exhaustion, the terror of the desert, the agony of Noga's suffering, and now this… this performance… shatters her fragile composure.

"Restored?" Her voice is a shard of broken glass, rising shrilly. "Look at him, Puripal! Look at what that Tepr witch did! And you stand there in your clean clothes, spouting pretty lies about regency and stability? You snake! You coiled in the shadows while the true Khan fought! You waited for this!" She gestures wildly at Noga. "You think your stolen robes make you a ruler? You think your whispers in the dark make you strong?" Spittle flies from her lips. "Cower now, Puripal! Cower while you can! Because when he wakes…" She points a trembling, bandaged finger at Noga. "...when the true Khan of Khans wakes, the storm you've courted will sweep you and your fools into the deepest hell!" She collapses against the cart, great, wrenching sobs tearing from her chest, her body shaking with fury and despair.

Dolma places a firm, weathered hand on Sarangerel's shoulder. "Peace, daughter," she murmurs, her voice low and gravelly, but her ancient eyes are fixed on Puripal, burning with an understanding that goes far deeper than Sarangerel's rage. "Save your strength. The storm gathers at its own pace."

Puripal doesn't flinch at the insults. He watches Sarangerel's breakdown with an expression of detached, almost clinical, interest. He sighs, a sound of weary patience. "Grief twists the tongue, sister. I forgive your outburst. The physicians will attend our brother immediately. The funerary preparations will commence." He turns, his spotless boots clicking on the bloodstained stones.

As he walks back towards the palace doors, not sparing another glance for the broken prince or his weeping wife, a small, satisfied smile touches Puripal's lips.

...

Sunlight, weak and apologetic, filters through intricate jade lattices, casting barred shadows across a floor littered with discarded silk cushions and a shattered celadon teacup. Jinhuang sits hunched on the edge of her vast, canopied bed, knees drawn to her chest. She isn't the fierce, wide-eyed girl who demanded to ride into battle anymore. She's a crumpled paper doll, her fine robes rumpled, tear tracks carving canyons through the dust on her cheeks. Her eyes, usually bright with inherited fire, stare vacantly at a spot on the priceless Qixi-Lo carpet.

Dukar slips through the door, closing it with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the oppressive silence. He approaches cautiously.

"Jinhuang?" His voice is low. "Are you… alright?"

A shudder rips through her. She doesn't look up. "Alright?" The word is a broken whisper, a puff of dust. "They… they rolled. Like… Only… louder when they hit the stones. The sound..." She presses her hands over her ears, knuckles white. "I dream of it. Like…" A fresh sob hitches in her chest, raw and ugly.

Dukar crouches beside the bed, the movement stiff. He reaches out, hesitates, then gently places a hand on her trembling knee. "I know," he murmurs, the words ash in his mouth. "I know it was… terrible. Worse than any battlefield. That wasn't war. That was… slaughterhouse work." He tries to find her gaze, but she flinches away, burying her face in her knees. Her muffled sobs are the only sound.

He sighs, a long, weary exhalation. Patience finally frays. "Jinhuang," he says, his voice hardening, sharper than he intends. "I told you. Again and again. Stay in Pezijil with San Lian and Sister Kai Lang. You begged to come. Well," he gestures vaguely towards the window, "this is the world we were heading to."

She lifts her head, her tear-streaked face contorted with sudden fury. "So you blame me? For being scared? For being… sick?" Her voice rises, shrill with hurt. "You're supposed to be my uncle! You're supposed to make it better! Why aren't you… why aren't you upset?!" She stares at him, searching his face for the horror she feels, finding only exhaustion and a grim resolve. "Look at you! You're just… watching and doing nothing! Doesn't it… doesn't it twist your gut? What Puripal did? What he is?"

Dukar meets her accusing gaze. His jaw tightens. A muscle flickers in his temple. "Of course I'm upset, Jinhuang. But listen to me. Puripal…" He pauses, choosing his words like navigating a minefield. "...he wasn't born smiling over severed heads. His childhood wasn't ballads and butterflies. It was poison-tipped lessons and watching his brothers sharpen knives. His mother…" He trails off. "He carries scars you can't see. Deeper than any sword cut. He asked for my help. My strength. To break the wheel that crushed him. To get his own back. I swore I would stand with him for that. Not… not for this." He gestures again, the disgust finally bleeding into his tone. "But the promise stands. I don't intervene in his… reckonings."

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Jinhuang stares at him, the fury draining from her face, replaced by a dawning, profound revulsion. "His… reckonings?" she whispers, the word tasting foul. "You call that… reckoning? You swore to help him become… that?" She shoves his hand off her knee, the movement weak but filled with loathing. "You're just as scary as he is now."

The shove is negligible, but the words land like hammer blows. Dukar flinches, almost imperceptibly. He sees the fear in her eyes – not just of the memory, but of him. He pushes himself upright, the movement stiff.

Finally, he sighs again. "You need rest, Jinhuang." He avoids looking at her, focusing instead on the intricate pattern of a nearby screen. "I'll… I'll speak to Puripal. And see if… if there are books. Stories. The old kind. Not war chronicles. And…" he adds, grasping for anything normal, "...some of those honeyed dates you like. Or the pistachio sweets from the market. Before…" He doesn't finish the thought. Before the market ran red.

Jinhuang doesn't respond. She just curls tighter into herself, fresh tears spilling silently down her cheeks, tracing paths through the dust and dried salt of previous storms. She nods once.

Dukar watches her for a heartbeat longer, the image of her profound misery searing itself into his mind. He turns and walks towards the door. The only solace is the closing of the door, shutting out the sight, if not the sound, of his niece's shattered world.

...

Puripal lounges on a divan heaped with Yohazatz cushions. A half-empty cup of mint tea steams beside him, untouched.

Kan slips in like smoke, her movements silent. The bruise from Nemeh and his men's shove days earlier blooms faintly yellow near her temple. "Prince Puripal," she murmurs, the title tasting strange. "Prince Nemeh stirs the pot again. Whispers in the barracks.'"

Puripal doesn't look up. "Let him whisper. Let him grumble. Yesterday's spectacle filled a great many bellies – not with rice, Kan, but with catharsis." He finally lifts his gaze, his eyes unnervingly bright. "A magnificent word, isn't it? Catharsis. It comes from the west. A word we learned in the Books of Ancients that Demoz brought, when he sacked the city named Gift of God, along with thousands of books from their exhaustive libraries. The purging of pity and terror, is what it means. Give the mob blood, a grand show, a scapegoat to rend limb from limb… and their own rage, their fear, drains away. Like lancing a boil." He gestures vaguely towards the plaza beyond the window. "They got their pound of flesh. Their screams were their prayers. Now? They're sated. Docile. Third Brother will find fewer eager ears for his treason today. The well of righteous fury is… temporarily dry."

Kan steps closer, drawn despite herself. The cold calculation in his voice both terrifies and fascinates her. "Like theatre?"

"Exactly!" Puripal beams. "Theatre! But far more potent. Puppets preach morals, Kan. Public executions enforce them. They show the consequences of defiance, the glorious reward of obedience. They tell the people what to think, whom to hate… and they love it." He takes a slow sip of his tea. "Third Brother plays checkers. I play the lute of their basest instincts."

Kan moves until she's almost touching him. Her voice drops to a husky whisper. "And when will my performance end? When do I shed the servant's rags? When do you proclaim Princess Kan, restored to her rightful place beside the Regent? You promised me!"

Puripal's expression curdles. He rolls his eyes skyward. "Stars above, not this again…"

Kan flinches, but presses. "You look just like Mother when you do that," she breathes, a sudden, unexpected vulnerability cracking her voice. Before he can react, she lunges forward, pressing her lips fiercely against his.

Puripal freezes for a split second, shock turning instantly to revulsion. Then he explodes. His hand shoots out, shoving her back with brutal force. Kan stumbles, her head cracking sickeningly against the carved jade paneling of the wall. She gasps, stars exploding behind her eyes, clutching her skull.

"You wretched, grasping vermin!" Puripal snarls, leaping to his feet. Tea sloshes from his cup onto the priceless rug. "You reek of the gutter you crawled from! Touch me again with your filthy desperation, and I'll have Dukar feed you your own entrails! Get OUT! And don't you DARE look at me!"

The door swings open. Dukar stands framed in the entrance, his face a mask of stone, his eyes taking in the scene: Kan slumped against the wall, dazed and bleeding from a split lip, Puripal trembling with fury, spittle on his chin.

"Puripal," Dukar's voice is low, dangerous ice. "Stop hitting her."

Puripal sees Dukar, sees the judgment in his eyes. Rage, humiliation, and a perverse need to dominate twist his features. He doesn't look at Dukar. Instead, he looks down at Kan, cowering on the floor. With a swift, vicious motion, he hurls the entire contents of his teacup into her face. Scalding liquid and leaves splash over her skin, into her eyes. She shrieks, curling into a ball.

"LEAVE!" Puripal roars, pointing a shaking finger at the door. "NOW, YOU PATHETIC CREATURE!"

Kan scrambles to her feet, whimpering, tea leaves plastered to her reddening skin, tears mixing with the hot liquid. She flees past Dukar without a backward glance, the door slamming shut behind her with a finality that echoes in the sudden silence.

Dukar doesn't move. His gaze remains fixed on Puripal, cold, appraising. The air crackles with unspoken accusation.

"Can I free my men now?" Dukar asks, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth it once held for the prince. "The ones you allowed me to free yesterday, before you decided to paint the plaza with Moukopl blood?"

Puripal glares, defiance warring with something else – a flicker of panic at Dukar's coldness. "I told you. You have my permission. Go play the liberator to your flea-bitten tribesmen. What are you waiting for?"

Dukar's jaw tightens. "I was about to do it."

Puripal takes a step towards him, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Are you defying me too, Dukar? Like the rest? Is the loyal hound finally showing its teeth?"

Dukar doesn't answer. He simply holds Puripal's gaze for a long, agonizing moment. Then he turns. Without a word, he walks out of the chamber, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the latch is deafening.

Puripal stands alone in the sudden, suffocating silence. The bravado evaporates. He stares at the closed door, a tremor running through him. He wants to scream. To run after Dukar, grab him, shake him, demand he stay. To shout that he needs him, that he's the only one who ever saw past the prince to the boy terrified of the dark, the boy who just wanted his mother's smile. But the words clot in his throat, thick with the knowledge of what he is, what he's done. Who could stay? Who could accept this?

He staggers back, collapsing onto the edge of his massive bed. The silken sheets feel like ashes. He buries his face in his hands. A sob wracks his thin frame, hot tears squeezing out – tears of rage, of loneliness, of a profound, hollowing despair. His shoulders shake.

Then, abruptly, the sob hitches. It catches in his throat, morphs. A wet, choking sound escapes him. Then another. It's not crying anymore. It's… laughter.

A low, guttural chuckle bubbles up, growing louder, wilder, echoing off the opulent walls. Puripal throws his head back, tears still streaming down his face, but his mouth is stretched in a manic grin. He laughs at the absurdity, the horror, the sheer, bloody perfection of it all. Nemeh scheming in the shadows? Meaningless. Kan's pathetic ambitions? Trivial. Dukar's cold disappointment? A temporary setback.

He laughs because Father is dead by an arrow he didn't fire but might as well have. Nemeh is trapped, a figurehead prince gnawing his own leash. Noga is broken, after spending all his resources fighting for an insignificant piece of land. The Moukopl Crown Prince is disgraced, his elite legion butchered on foreign stones. He, Puripal, the overlooked youngest son, the poet-prince, holds Qixi-Lo. He holds the power. He played the lute of their instincts, and they danced.

He laughs because he's winning.

...

The Salt Pit ramp exhales its stench of despair and brine as Dukar descends, the heavy keys cold in his grip. Below, the Tepr prisoners shuffle in the gloom, chains clinking. Hope, a fragile bird, flutters in their sunken eyes as they see him. Arban squints his eyes. "Dukar? Are we... finally free?"

Dukar opens his mouth – Freedom. Dawn. Home. – when the sound tears through Qixi-Lo.

The Örukai Thunder Call. A sound etched into Dukar's marrow. It rolls across the plaza, silencing barter, freezing children mid-chase, rattling the drying blood on the execution stones.

Dukar spins. Up the ramp, into the blinding white light of the plaza. The crowd parts like startled sheep, revealing the source.

Naci Khan sits astride Liara at the city's main gate. Behind her, perhaps three hundred Tepr warriors and Moukopl cavalry, lean as winter wolves, dust-caked and bearing the grim stamp of the Kamoklopr. Frost clings to their furs, their breath plumes like dragon-smoke in the cold air. They look less like an army, more like vengeance given form. Naci's eyes scan the plaza.

A slow, predatory smile spreads across Naci's face. She nudges Liara forward, the mare's hooves clicking sharply on the stone. Her voice, amplified by the plaza's acoustics and her own steely resonance, cuts the stunned silence:

"People of Qixi-Lo! I am Naci Khan, Sovereign of the United Tribes of Tepr! We come not for your walls, nor your wells, but for a debt owed. The head of Prince Noga Yohazatz, breaker of oaths, invader of homelands. Deliver it, and the Winds of Tepr blow onward, leaving only peace in its wake. Deny it…" She lets the implication hang, her gaze sweeping the terrified crowd, lingering for a heartbeat on the grisly head-stacks. "...and learn the cost."

Her eyes sweep the plaza, dismissing the gawking citizens, the nervous guards. Then they lock onto Dukar, standing frozen halfway up the Salt Pit ramp, the keys dangling uselessly from his hand. Recognition flashes – her brother, alive, here, amidst this carnage. A laugh bursts from Naci, sharp and bright as shattering icicles. It echoes strangely against the grim backdrop.

"Brother!" she calls, her voice rich with triumphant understanding. She swings down from Liara with a wince she quickly masks, striding towards him, arms spread wide. "By the Spirits! I chase the Tiger across hell's frozen antechamber only to find you holding the gate! You and your…" Her gaze flicks to the Moukopl heads, then back to Dukar, her smile widening into something fierce and proud. "...efficient housekeeping! Puripal's work, I assume? Clever pup. You took the city! You broke the Yohazatz grip!" She stops before him, beaming, ready to clasp his forearm in the warriors' grip. "The fallen prince's head is here, then? Saved me the final chase!"

Dukar doesn't move. Doesn't return the smile. The hope in the prisoners' eyes below curdles into confusion. The crowd holds its breath. He sees it all reflected in Naci's expectant gaze: her assumption of shared victory, her belief that he fought for Tepr, that this slaughter was their triumph. The keys feel like lead in his hand. His voice, when it comes, is a low rasp, grating against the jubilant energy radiating from her.

"Step back, Naci."

The command hangs in the air. Naci's smile doesn't vanish; it freezes, hardening at the edges like river ice. Her outstretched arm slowly lowers. Her eyes, moments ago alight with kinship and triumph, narrow, dissecting his face.

"Step back?" she echoes, the warmth leaching from her voice, replaced by a dangerous chill. "Explain yourself, brother." She takes a deliberate step forward, invading his space. "Why do you stand guard over Yohazatz filth?" Her chin jerks towards the silent, watching citizens. "Why does the stink of Moukopl blood cling to your city's stones, yet you bar my path to the one who spilled Tepr blood?"

Dukar meets her gaze. He sees the dawning realization, the slow, terrible erosion of her assumption. He sees the moment she pieces it together – the "efficient housekeeping" wasn't for Tepr. It was for Puripal. His Puripal. He sees the understanding flash in her eyes, cold and absolute: the betrayal isn't just of her trust, but of Tepr itself.

"You knew," Naci whispers, the words sharp as flint. "When you learned what he was. What you were to him. You chose." Her hand drifts towards the hilt of her saber. "You stand on the wrong side of the gate, Dukar. The gate I am about to break down."

"These stones," Dukar says, his voice thick with a grief his sister cannot yet comprehend, "are not yours to break. Not today." His sword screams as it unsheathes.

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